


A Warrior's Armor

by jethel



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Monologue, Mandalorians (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jethel/pseuds/jethel
Summary: Boba Fett has reclaimed his armor, but he recognizes that both he and the Beskar are not the same as they once were. This story explores Boba Fett's complex relationship with his inheritance (and his father) and why a new coat of paint was in order. Another chapter coming soon.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	1. Scars

**Chapter 1: Scars**

“How does it feel?” Fennec Shand stood on the access ramp of _Slave I,_ the Mandalorian Din Djarin several steps ahead, his boots meeting Nevarroan soil.

Fett, opting to remain aboard his ship, cocked an eyebrow in her direction. He remembered she could not see his features behind his impenetrably dark t-shaped visor.

“How does what feel?” He grunted, nonchalant.

“Having your armor. By the way you were taking out those Imps back there, it’s as if you could’ve been wearing it yesterday – if I didn’t know any better,” A smirk played on her lips, eyes locked on his t-visor.

She was right. The armor felt as natural as his own two hands and feet.

“There aren’t words,” He shrugged. _Not that I’ve ever been good with words…_

“It shows,” Fennec nodded. “Going to stretch my legs… clear my head for a bit,” she gestured briefly to the desolate surface before making her descent, trailing the Mandalorian.

While Fett truly felt it was no one’s business but his own how _anything_ made him feel, he also recognized his response was earnest. There were no known words that captured how it felt to have the armor returned to him, at least in Basic. But there were emotions… feelings he had not felt since he was a young boy on Kamino. When dad came home from a hunt after weeks of absence. That was how it felt having the armor once more in his possession. Worth more to him than any number of credits. _Priceless._

As Din bartered with a marshal for aid in the form of ex-Imperial sharpshooter turned New Republic chattel and Fennec wandered planet side, Fett descended to the lower levels of _Slave I._

Shutting a portal behind him, he removed the helmet – his father’s helmet, _his_ helmet. Holding it with both hands, he felt the dense weight of the Beskar sinking into his palms as he held the heirloom in front of his chest. With his left hand, he gripped his fingers around the bottom edge of the helmet, taking his right thumb to gently brush away a thin layer of sand and grime from a cheek mottled with scars and a chipped coating of green paint. 

With the damage from the Sarlacc and, to a much lesser extent, the marshal Cobb Vanth, there was more silver than green, revealing the dun gleam of the Mandalorian alloy beneath.

Dad would polish the Beskar, Fett recalled fondly. Like Din, his father Jango had chosen to let his Beskar breathe, its luster a menacing promise.

“ _It doesn’t matter if they can see me. I’m coming for_ them _,”_ his father had told him. 

Every scratch, nick, dent, and deformity in the armor had origins – Fett mused he had once been able to recollect the various encounters, scraps, and struggles that had conceived the markings on his kit.

For each blemish was a story, the armor a saga of survival.

Dragging a finger lazily across the dome, he saw where old imperfections, the ones he _knew,_ joined with the markings he did not, forming larger regions of whittled paint on the sea-green canvas. The orange kill stripes on the dome were as faded as the memory of the lives they once symbolized.

Glancing down towards his chest, he observed how most of the blotches on the damaged green coating were sizeable, consuming the smaller, older ones like weeds in an untilled garden, leaving no traces of most of Fett’s former battle scars.

Even as he wore his inheritance, the armor that for _years_ had been his second skin, he knew its speckled tale was no longer his. The Sarlacc, the Great Dune Sea, the exploits of Cobb Vanth – these had re-written the stories told by the Mandalorian armor. 

He placed the helmet gingerly on a nearby workbench and began removing the armor piece by piece.

***

Fett stood over his armor, sprawled out like various pieces of a child’s puzzle across the workbench, feeling unexpectedly _light_. The rough-hewn, loose-fitting robes were all he had adorned the last several years during his hermitage on Tatooine. In truth, he had forgotten how the armor had weighed upon him, pressing into his shoulders, chest, and forearms – a solidity that loitered on the skin, not unlike the heavy heat generated by the twin suns of Tatooine that penetrated one’s core long after those formidable stars were consumed by the dark horizon. 

_I’m getting old… and my time out of it has made me weaker,_ Fett mused coldly.

He knelt to rummage through a utility crate, until his search yielded a canister of spray pigment. He shook the container vigorously, hearing the contents sloshing within. The paint, too, was past its prime but remained functional. Setting the canister aside, he gripped a small cloth and wiped a chest piece, freeing it from its thin coasting of loose grime and sand. The piece freed of dirt and debris, he set aside the cloth and retrieved the pigment, applying pressure to a trigger to release a sputtering green spray. It was darker than Fett remembered, as he absent-mindedly recalled that different planetary conditions at the time of application could impact the tint. It made little difference to him how the color appeared – all that mattered was that it was _his._

The emerald tint was not, by any means, a universally suitable color from a tactical perspective. There were more times than not when his armor clashed with the environment, as apparent as a Twi’lek dancer on the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer. But that was hardly a concern when your name _alone_ sent the most ruthless louts into a cowardly frenzy.

His opting for pigment was not for tactics, style, or tradition, but something personal. It was necessary.

Coating the armor had lessened the grief that had come when his face and frame matured into that of Jango’s. At the onset of adulthood, his gangly youthful stature broadened, and the armor fit his frame just as it had upon his father. When on the rare occasions he was confronted with the armor’s scintillating reflection in a _Slave I_ viewport or upon a reflective decoration in a gaudy cantina, wearing his father’s silver Beskar had become less a way of honoring him and more a grim rite for conjuring a ghost, supplying a swift and raw feeling of loss and cold resentment. In his prime, the choice to adorn the armor in green with maroon and auburn accents had made him _Boba_. It was a small act of delineating himself from the man who raised him. The man stolen from him by a Jedi when he was a mere child. The man who had chosen an heir engineered from his own genetic code. 

For as long as Boba could remember, he had known he was a clone.

_***_

_~29 BBY, Kamino_

_“Dad.” Boba’s hand tugged at his father’s shirt. Even seated, Jango towered above him. “Do I ‘ave bruh-ders?”_

_“Hm?” Jango’s large hand ruffled Boba’s hair askew, but his eyes remained locked on the data pad in the other._

_“Do I ‘ave bruh-ders?” Boba repeated, his small brow furrowed._

_Jango slowly lowered the data pad on the adjacent table, turning to his blood. His other hand continued to slowly tousle Boba’s hair. The young boy before him was getting bigger each day, his physical growth perhaps only eclipsed by the development of the personality taking shape._

_“The uh-thur boys who live here, the ones who follow the tall people ‘round an’ stuff… They look like me.”_

_Jango scooped up the young Boba, placing him onto his lap. He had mistakenly thought Boba was too young to recognize the others as potential kin. Afterall, they were growing at a match faster rate than Boba. Still, perhaps he had been a fool to think the similarity would go unrecognized this long._

_“No, son,” Jango signed. “They might look like you, but they’re not your brothers. Taun We and the others look after them.”_

_“Oh,” Boba’s shoulders slumped, his eyes absorbing the white flooring. “Buh – But why do they look like me?”_

_“Hmmm,” Jango hummed, his arms embracing is son, pulling him closer to his chest._

_“You’ve heard Taun We talking about the clones, right? You look the same as the other boys because you’re all clones. But that’s the only thing you have in common.”_

_Boba’s gaze shifted upward, meeting Jango’s chest, chin, nose, then his face. Jango peered back, identical pairs of dark brown eyes locked on the other. “Whatsa clone?” Boba asked._

_“A clone is a copy. You’re all copies of me.” Jango paused, allowing a moment for Boba’s young mind to comprehend._

_Boba’s brow crinkled in confusion. “But why?”_

_“You and them have been copied for different reasons. You, Boba… you’re_ my _son. You’re_ my _legacy. You give me purpose.” Jango squeezed his small son, his fingers slowly – then suddenly – playfully kneading into Boba’s shirt and skin._

_“Daaaad, tha’ tickles!” Boba snickered, swatting at his father’s hands._

_“My little warrior,” Jango chuckled, his eyes crinkling warmly. He cleared his throat, easing his grip on his son. “The others, they’ll have purpose, too. And they’ll be warriors. But they’re not_ mine, _the way you are. You_ are _special, son.”_

_Scooping up Boba, Jango stood and tossed Boba gently into the air. Boba shrieked with laughter as he soared towards the ceiling above._

_Jango caught him, spun him around a few times, and placed a teetering Boba feet-first on the floor. Boba chuckled as he wobbled around the room, struggling to keep upright, making his way back over to Jango’s side._

_“One more time, dad!”_

_“Later – you don’t want to spit up your midday meal now, do you?” He chuckled, smoothing Boba’s head gently. He lowered himself to sit on his heels, meeting Boba eye to eye once more. “One day, when you’re old enough, do you know you’ll have Mandalorian armor – just like your dad?”_

_Boba steadied himself, no longer teetering, mouth agape. “Really?” He breathed, eyes widening as a smile grew into his ruddy cheeks._

_“It’ll be forged just for you – one of a kind. I’ll see to it.”_

_“I’ll be a Mamda-lor-eean, too?” Boba asked._

_“You already are. And a proper Mandalorian warrior needs armor.”_

_“When? When?” Boba tugged anxiously at the fabric of Jango’s pants, beaming with excitement._

_“Oh, when you’re a bit older,” Jango chortled. “You’re growing a lot at this age, and we’ll want it to last once it’s forged.”_

_“Oh…” Boba sulked, his small lips forming into a pout._

_“Don’t worry, another year or two, and you’ll be ready to come with me on some of my hunts. I’ll start teaching everything you need to know to be a warrior. How does that sound?” Jango said, grabbing Boba’s tiny hand into his fist._

_“Swear?” Boba asked._

_“It’s a promise.”_


	2. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we re-visit Boba's time on Kamino and touch on his (and his father's) estrangement with Mandalorian culture.

**Chapter 2: Stories**

_~31 BBY, Kamino, Tipoca City_

_“Ah, here you are, Master Jango,” the honeyed voice of Tuan We greeted Jango Fett as he entered the rotund chamber. A small smile played at her thin lips; hands clasped calmly at her front as she towered above him._

_He nodded in greeting, scanning the bright-white interior of the room – he was searching for_ it, _his purpose for being summoned to the meeting. He glanced at Tuan We with a quizzically raised brow; her expression remained serene._

_“We are pleased to inform you that we completed your request for one unmodified clone. The screening test results show zero abnormalities that would warrant reconditioning.” Her tone was as bright as the core of Tipoca City._

_Jango blinked at Tuan We’s light indifference at the notion of “reconditioning” a newborn… or whatever one would call a human conceived and grown in a gestational tube in a cloning laboratory._

_He exhaled sharply. “When can I see it?”_

_A steady thudding drummed up in his chest. He had not expected this, whatever it was he was suddenly feeling._

_Tuan We gestured gracefully towards the portal with one arm as a Kaminoan nursemaid entered, a tiny white bundle cradled in her long arms. Jango stepped forward, meeting the nursemaid halfway across the room. The nursemaid offered the bundle, lowering it to Jango’s level with her long arms. A round face with light olive skin and pink cheeks clashed with the sterile white swaddling, as did a crown of miniscule dark curls adorning the boy’s head. His tiny eye lids were sealed into peaceful slits, feathery lashes long and dark, with his pink lips parted into a relaxed ring._

_Jango felt the hammering in his chest gradually subside as he nestled the tiny child in his arms._

_“He’s just received his first sustenance. He did well. He should be settled for some time before he awakens,” the nursemaid was placid, yet Jango detected a hint of pride in her tone._

_“So, Tuan We said the tests are good… do you need to run any more on it— him?” Jango inquired, eager to leave the austere chamber and the territorial cloners._

_“He’s clear for release, but there will be additional tests in the coming days and weeks. We can continue to rear the child until the time of your choosing, should that be your preference, Master Jango,” The nursemaid offered._

_“No,” Jango didn’t hesitate._ _“That won’t be necessary.”_

_He felt the small weight of the baby press into him, warming his forearms. It was life – a life he would mold into Jaster’s legacy._

_“Of course,” the nursemaid bowed her head slightly, voice tranquil. “Myself and my staff will make sure you have everything you need.”_

_“And we will provide the very best caretakers when your work summons you away from Kamino,” Taun We added._

_The little one stirred gently in Jango’s arms, a small fist emerging from the edge of the swaddled cloth below his chin. Jango gently shifted the tiny body to support the child with his left arm. His right hand freed, he extended a finger to meet the child’s miniscule hand. An unexpectedly strong grip enveloped Jango’s calloused skin, and he found himself smiling at his progeny._

_“We’ll deliver nourishment and other goods within the hour,” Tuan We nodded at the nursemaid. They took one final bow before ambling elegantly towards the exit._

_Jango wasn’t supposed to survive that day on Concord Dawn – not if Jaster hadn’t intervened. This little life was here, in his arms, gripping his finger like a Rancor’s claw clenched its prey, because Jaster had chosen to adopt him_ , _a rudderless orphan,_ _amid a Mandalorian civil war._

_He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward as the child’s grip intensified around his finger._

_“Boba,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll call you Boba. After Jaster’s father.”_

_More than a legacy, Jango knew – he, too, had a son._

***

Fett’s hand gripped the paint canister as his finger continued to apply pressure to the trigger, his arm oscillating across the armor to ensure a thorough and even coat as the dark green pigment absorbed the shiny patches of beskar.

The chest piece now fully green, Fett took a second to appreciate the coating. He had decided against removing the old layer below, noting how the outlines from the old scuffs and chips were still visible under the fresh coat. Despite knowing the presence of the old strata would make the new layer more prone to chipping, he had his reasons for its preservation.

It was convenient to forgo the proper removal of the old pigment and battle scars, as the process of sanding and stripping the paint could take hours – an amenity he did not have. But more than that, it was part and parcel of the armor’s history, including his unfortunate encounter with the Sarlacc. Just like his face, his armor would carry those ravages, a subtle reminder of what he had endured – for beneath the new strata, the record of his survival would remain. 

He continued his ritual, wiping the remaining armor pieces free of gritty sand and dirt. The Mandalorian armor. Jango had told him on more than one occasion that only true Mandalorians were worthy of the honor of wearing beskar. But there hadn’t been enough time with Jango for Boba to have fully grasped what his father had meant by that. Mandalorian culture remained as foreign to him as normalcy was to an orphan. And as far as Boba Fett knew, the Mandalore of his time was very different from the one Jango had known…

***

_~25 BBY, Kamino, Tipoca City_

_Boba was awaiting his father’s return. He laid in his bunk with nothing but the heavy drum of rain beating against his dark bedroom viewport to distract him from wondering about the cause of Jango’s delay. He rolled over onto his side, eyes staring out into the ocean waves beyond the transparent pane, their white foamy crests dimly discernable through the veil of night. He wanted to think about anything else._

_He watched the occasional flash of lightening bounce off the reflective surface of the window – the way the light flashed reminded him of how his comm link lit up whenever dad called._

_When_ was _the last time he heard from dad? Nearly a day ago. And he always called, every day._

 _On that last call, dad had said that he was on schedule to return to Kamino_ hours _ago. Waiting was even harder now that Boba was old enough to accompany his father on the low-risk jobs. While Boba had begged to go along on this last one, Jango had told him this one was different – the bounty was dangerous, and he needed to be cautious._

_Dad always told him not to worry, but he knew the uncomfortable bubbling in his stomach meant that he was. He closed his eyes, mumbling a little tune that dad used to sing to him when he was younger, feeling the weight of his eyelids grow increasingly heavier…_

_His eyes snapped open at the sound of the apartment doors parting to give entry, accompanied by two voices in hushed conversation. One was dad’s, but he wasn’t sure about the other. He recognized it as human, likely belonging to one of the mercenaries hired to train clone soldiers._

_“-- trying to give my boys a culture; a life,” a tired male voice pleaded._

_“You’re forgetting their purpose,” Jango’s voice was stern; the very tone his father would use when Boba did something that disappointed him. It told Boba he should remain out of this conversation._

_But he was awake and awfully curious. Why would one of the clone trainers need to talk to dad in the middle of the night? Boba rolled quietly out of bed and tiptoed up to the bedroom door he had left slightly ajar. The main chamber of the apartment was dimly lit with a torch Boba had left on for Jango’s arrival, offering just enough illumination for him to perceive the space._

_“And what purpose is that? Cannon fodder? For a Republic that doesn’t recognize their citizenship?” The other voice challenged. Boba peered through the gap between the door and the jamb and saw a short, thin silhouette backlit from the bright light spilling from the corridor into the apartment._

_“You think that doesn’t make me uneasy? You know what you signed up for.” Jango stood rigid, his silver beskar reflected the low light from the iridescent torch as he turned around to face the other man, that stark silhouette, still standing in the threshold._

_“And_ you _know as well as I that I didn’t have the full story when I agreed to this job,” the other man’s voice was quiet, yet simmered with ire. He took several steps into the apartment, the torch light revealing his weathered face. Boba recognized him as one of the Mandalorians who trained the commando clones._

_“Easy, Kal,” Boba saw Jango’s body language shift to a more relaxed posture. “Boba’s sleeping, let’s not wake him over our spat, shall we?” He pulled over a stool for Kal and gestured for him to sit as he took a seat in an adjacent chair._

_“The other Mandalorians… they’d agree with me. They condemn what you’ve done – .”_

_“Think I don’t know that?” Jango bristled. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his armored thighs, looking Kal directly in the eye. “The True Mandalorian way is over. I don’t give a womp rat’s ass what the alleged New Mandalorians think about my choices.”_

_“I don’t mean the New Mandalorians. I mean the resistance, the survivors on Concordia… to them, you’re_ dar’manda _. You could have taken a foundling.”_

_“A foundling? No Mandalorian has taken one in years.”_

_“You wanted a legacy. There could have been another way,” Kal shrugged._

_“Perhaps. But I was presented with an opportunity. It’s done, and you’re here helping me train these men.” Jango slid into the back of his chair, crossing his armored forearms across his chest._

_Boba peered at the two men from his hidden position, their hardened expressions locked on one another. There was an uneasy silence for a few seconds, and Boba wondered if one of them might throw a punch. He thought about the blaster hidden under his bed should he need to help his dad…_

_“Jango…” Kal’s voice was barely a whisper. “The last of our culture has been confined to an_ osik _rock.”_

 _“If those fools banished to Concordia had any sense of self-preservation, they would have left Mandalore when they had the chance, as we did,” Jango scoffed, uncrossing his arms. “This is why I don’t understand why you think it so important..._ Mando’a, _they’re not even speaking that on Mandalore. Our language and culture will die on that moon, along with those who were exiled to that rock. Why teach it to your men?"_

_“Why do I need to teach my men about their culture? They might be all that’s left to inherit it,” Kal’s voice wavered, but his gaze did not._

_“Alright. I don’t necessarily agree with your methods, but I’ve never been as sentimental as you, now have I?” Jango extended an arm and roughly patted Kal’s shoulder._

_Kal snorted at Jango’s jab. “All I’m asking for is a little flexibility. I want these boys to know they’re part of something outside of the army, the politics. Will you convince those_ di‘kutla _fish people for me?”_

_“I’ll speak with them. Just need to convince them it’s good for morale... which I reckon it would be.”_

_“Thanks, Jango. They’ve been breathing down my neck while you’ve been away,” Kal stood with a yawn, heading for the portal. He craned his head back towards Jango. “I’ll never understand why you agreed to this, but… all things considered, I’m glad I’m here.”_

_“Your men are lucky to have you. As am I.”_

_Boba watched as Jango escorted Kal to the threshold, closing the portal behind him. As far as he understood, the Mandalorians were upset with his dad, but why? Were they jealous that dad had been selected as the template for the greatest army that the galaxy would ever see? He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, knowing that the other Mandalorians could be mad at his dad, but he didn’t want him to know. He wasn’t a weakling._

_He darted into the main chamber, scrambling to his dad with a grin._

_“Boba!” Jango crouched on his heels, arms spread to greet his son. He fell into his father’s embrace, not caring that the beskar was cold to the touch._

**Author's Note:**

> Who's excited for The Book of Boba Fett? I cannot wait! In the meantime, fanfic will have to hold me over...


End file.
